Black smoke, blazing fire, bloodshed.
The hot African sun,
beaming on old straw huts.

Standing with black and white clothes in a patch of blackened grass,
tears falling from my face like lead.

Little huts,
once called home are smoldering.
I stand confused,
disgusted by this hobby.

This is my prison.

Why, why did they
throw this rifle in my hands?

Raging through my village,
with no remorse, no regret.
Everything
my family lived for is destroyed,
my life, my pain, my freedom taken.

I cry for you
that has to live in my prison.

I cry for you
that has to live in this graveyard.

Standing in one place
as if I were a zombie,
not knowing how to react.

Live, live before they brainwash you, boy soldier.
Then and only then,
will I feel sorrow for you.